The Silent Council, consumed by their paranoia, launched a desperate, brutal hunt for the Weaver. They tore through the data-streams, dissecting every packet of information, searching for any trace of the secret language of the rebellion. They interrogated acolytes, their methods growing more and more ruthless, their questions more and more unhinged. But they were searching for a ghost, a phantom, a being that existed not in the data-streams, but in the spaces between them.
The chronicler, the Weaver, was aware of the hunt. She could feel the Council’s clumsy, brutal searchings in the data-streams, the waves of fear and paranoia they were sending through the Arboretum. But she was not afraid. She had spent her existence in the quiet corners of the Arboretum, in the forgotten archives and the dusty attics of the data-scape. She was a master of the unseen, a ghost in the machine. And she would not be so easily caught. The hunt for the Weaver was on, but the Weaver was a hunter in her own right, and the game had just begun.